Rolling Boulder
“Lucia.”
“Yes, Kyle.”
Lucia, who had been standing quietly and listening to the conversation, replied.
“When you deflected Bruno's sword earlier, your wrist stung a bit, right?”
“Yes, a little.”
Lucia nodded and rotated her wrist. No matter how skillfully she'd deflected it, Bruno's raw power and the sheer mass of his greatsword were nothing to sneeze at. Especially since she'd followed Kyle's instructions just now, barely using any mana and only countering Bruno's blade moderately.
“See, pig? Your sword didn't completely fail against Lucia. If you hadn't given up the moment you thought you'd lost, and instead planted your feet, regained your stance, and charged back in, it wouldn't have ended in just one exchange.”
“L-Let's say... I did regain my center. But the sword was already deflected—how was I supposed to swing it again?”
“Sigh... pig, is that massive bulk of yours just for show? Ram him with your shoulder, drop the sword and throw a punch—plenty of options.”
“Is that... swordsmanship?”
“If you pick up a sword and win with it, it's swordsmanship.”
“Fine, say I did ram with my shoulder. You think Lucia would just stand there and take it? Her sword would...”
“Pierce your shoulder. Can't be helped—just tank it. You're tough, aren't you?”
Bruno's jaw dropped at the brutally idiotic response.
“If it doesn't just pierce but lops your arm clean off, that's unavoidable too.”
“What do you mean unavoidable?!”
“That's the price for swinging your sword like a moron—who else you gonna blame?”
“You told me to spar!”
“Pig. Is it my fault you swung like that?”
Kyle sneered.
“Pig. You waited for your opponent to move, couldn't hold back, and lunged first. You should've thought ahead about what to do if the attack failed.”
“...”
“You think your opponent was standing there like an idiot? The moment you couldn't wait and jumped in, you fell right into their trap. And one more thing—doesn't it frustrate you, just standing there waiting for them to move?”
Does this kid read minds or something? Bruno faltered in panic.
“Th-That’s...”
“If you're gonna wait, wait patiently—make them itch to come at you. Standing still waiting is frustrating. So what're you gonna do?”
“In that case... I go on the offensive first, pressure them...”
“You're not pressuring jack. You're too emotional for that. And yet you give up quick.”
“So I gotta fix my emotional personality too...?”
Bruno's lip twitched as he asked. He'd heard that criticism from his father plenty of times.
“Giving up quick is a wimp trait you need to fix, but being emotional? Channel it right, and it's your edge.”
Kyle tilted his head cockily.
“You get pissed easy. Rage makes your eyes roll back. Hell, you tried to aura-kill a five-year-old.”
“Th-That time...”
“Just now, you snapped at me and Lucia ignoring you.”
“...”
“Keep raging. Even if you're not mad, force it. In a fight, imagine your opponent's the enemy who killed your uncle.”
“Wh-What...?”
“Don't stand there like a dumbass waiting, get frustrated, and charge. Just barrel in from the start. You're huge, greatsword and all. Smash like a brute.”
“W-Wait a sec.”
Bruno cut Kyle off in horror.
“The Rock Sword I learned isn't that kind of style. This sword is...”
“Uncle tell you to learn it?”
“...”
“What's Uncle's sword like?”
Kyle crossed his arms and asked. Bruno hesitated before answering.
“Father's sword... it's like a mountain. He just stands there, no openings. Facing him alone eats at your mind. When you force yourself to lunge, it crashes down like a collapsing peak.”
“If you attack first?”
“Can't... do a damn thing. Can't block it, can't dodge. Father's sword is heavy, immense.”
The impression Barkas gave wasn't particularly solemn. He was savage and explosive like a bear. But from Bruno's description, his sword was the opposite of his personality. That contrast would make opponents feel even more crushed facing it.
Swords don't have to match personality.
Mastering a style opposite your nature, weaponizing the uncanny pressure from that gap—that was Barkas's realm, honed over long years. He could suppress his fiery temper with mountain-like patience.
But Bruno wasn't built for that. Force it down, and he'd choke. Like trying to pour lava into a soy sauce dish.
“Uncle's Uncle, you're you.”
Kyle cut straight to it.
“Uncle forged his rage into mountain-weight stillness, but if you hold yours back, you turn into a half-assed cripple. He's seasoned; you're not. No patience either.”
“E-Even so, it's the sword Father told me to learn...”
“Who said don't learn it? Change how you use it. What's your spirit root?”
“Earth spirit root...”
Earth is vast and firm. It doesn't churn like the sea, sway like wind, blaze like fire, or chill like ice. Earth is always serene, steadfastly supporting all.
“Jagged rock peaks are earth. Sticky mud is earth, sand slipping through fingers is earth. Earthquakes shaking it, landslides crumbling it—they're all earth.”
Tap. Kyle's finger nudged the greatsword.
“Rock Sword's essence is weight and solidity. Why show it by standing still? Rocks tumble down, landslides are dirt and stone. Don't be the still mountain—be the boulder that crushes everything as it rolls.”
Bruno's mouth hung open blankly.
“I've holed up in the archive reading tons of sword manuals. Lots share names but differ in form and structure. You ever seen another Rock Sword manual?”
“N-No...”
“Just learned what Uncle told you, huh? Dumb pig. You'd die if he said to?”
“...”
“That bracelet.”
Kyle's gaze shifted to Bruno's wrist.
“Disrupts mana flow, right? Ever tried routing mana through unblocked circuits?”
“N-No.”
“Why not?”
“Never... tried.”
“Dunno what technique you practice. Don't care. No teeth? Chew with gums. Circuits blocked? Use others.”
“That's so brute-force...”
“Clinging to what doesn't work is brute too, in my book.”
Kyle snorted and stared Bruno dead in the eye.
“Be flexible, pig. Swords aren't swung by textbook, mana control neither.”
“Easy for a genius like you...”
“Not easy for me either. You're right—you suck compared to me, so harder. Tough luck. Wanna get good? Grind.”
Everything Kyle said was dead serious—no mockery. This arrogant cousin was advising him from one to ten, purely to help him swing better. And the advice was profoundly heavy, unbelievable from a ten-year-old.
“Why...”
Bruno stammered.
“Why say all this to me?”
This was what baffled Bruno most. Five years ago, he'd clashed with Kyle over something trivial, snapped, and nearly killed him.
He'd done nothing since to deserve kindness. A week ago, when Father ordered a spar with Kyle, Bruno had secretly thrilled. Chance to crush the insolent cousin monopolizing the family head's favor.
No way that not-ten-year-old cousin missed it. Today alone, Kyle had pierced his thoughts multiple times.
“I... haven't done a damn thing to deserve words like these...”
“Family?”
Kyle cocked his head.
“Cousins? Close in age? Something like that. We'll see each other long-term.”
“...”
“You're Alastor, I'm Alastor. Hate you feeling shame later sharing the name. Pitiful if you shame the house.”
“That bad, huh...”
“Not yet, but who knows later.”
Kyle snorted and clapped Bruno's shoulder.
“Head home today.”
“Why?”
“Tell Uncle properly. Say the sword you've learned doesn't fit—wanna try new stuff. If he asks where the wind blew from, say it's from me.”
“Father won't allow...”
“You asked?”
“...”
“If no, convince till he does. Then come back.”
“Then what?”
“Play swords like today.”
Kyle grinned brightly, flawlessly pure. Brazen, like Bruno's fears and frustrations were none of his business.
“Ha...”
Facing that smile, Bruno unwittingly chuckled too. He shook his head, snorting laughs, stored his greatsword in subspace, threw on his vest, strapped his pouches to his legs.
“Thanks.”
Bruno left those words and headed for the door. Before exiting, he paused and turned.
“You too... thanks.”
He nodded curtly to Lucia. Voice uncharacteristically meek for his size, head barely bowed. But the words reached her.
Before Lucia could reply, Bruno was out. She stood blankly a moment, then turned to Kyle.
“Just now... Bruno thanked me?”
“Yeah.”
“I don't know why. I did nothing.”
“Right? Rude bastard should've said sorry, not thanks.”
“Why sorry?”
“Pulling you from training for that pig. And he's ignored, bullied you before, right?”
“That's fine. Being ignored doesn't faze me.”
Lucia smiled faintly and sheathed her sword.
“But Kyle. Nothing for me?”
“Huh?”
“You advised Bruno on his sword.”
“Nothing to say. You're too good.”
No lie. Lucia had learned from Sword Tower elders before knight candidate training. Kyle had sparred her regularly for five years, but her sword had no flaws worth noting.
“Your eyes must see my lacks.”
“Nah, what would I see?”
Having said too-mature things to Bruno already.
Critique Lucia's too, and he'd spout something lofty. Kyle shrugged it off.
*
That evening.
After dashing back through the residential district, Bruno washed up, changed, and stood before Barkas's training hall.
His palms were slick with sweat.
He'd never questioned Father or offered opinions. To Bruno, Father was an absolute like the family head—scarier, even.
I'm... a pig.
Kyle's taunt echoed like a spell. Bruno took a deep breath and knocked.
“Come in.”
His knees weakened at the heavy bass. Bruno smacked his trembling legs with his fist, opened the door, and entered.
In the gray ore training hall's center, Barkas sat shirtless, eyes closed. Each breath shook the stones, his iron muscles twitching.
“Skipped morning run.”
Barkas asked without opening his eyes. Voice like thunder in a deep cave. He knew the gist but forced confession.
“Went to... Kyle.”
“Ditched my training for that.”
“Yes...”
“What'd you do?”
“Sparred... Lucia.”
Barkas's eyes snapped open. Dark green glared fiercely at Bruno.
“Wondered why that mongrel climbed to the fourth floor. That the reason.”
“...”
“No way you won. Ashamed of a pathetic loss to trash, so confessing to me?”
“N-No.”
Bruno shook his head.
“I... came for your permission, Father.”
“Permission? For what?”
Barkas's brow twitched.
“To... change the sword I'm learning...”
Barkas's eyes narrowed. Ominous sign.
“Change? Don't get what you're saying. Explain so your father understands.”
Pressure poured from Barkas, choking Bruno. Deep down, apology urged.
“I... I'm not you, Father.”
Bruno suppressed it, stammering on.
“Can't swing like you. No patience, no seasoning.”
“Whining you can't handle it?”
Barkas's brow twisted savagely. Pressure crushed heavier, but Bruno held without kneeling.
“Not... whining...!”
His squeezed voice boomed—loudest ever at Father.
“Waiting drives me mad...! Can't read opponents! Mimicking you doesn't fit—can't breathe!”
Bruno thumped his chest.
“Kyle said: not still mountain, rolling boulder. Crushing as it rolls—that's my nature...!”
“Crazy bastard...”
Barkas rose, striding over.
“That brat's babble better than your father's 15 years raising you?”
“F-Father...”
Bruno's voice shook. Each step made him crave to kneel and grovel, but he stared desperately.
“You've... never let me do what I want.”
“...”
“My technique, my sword—all chosen by you.”
“I mastered it.”
Barkas spat.
“You're my son. You'll inherit my swordsmanship. Now you're swayed by a kid five years younger, denying your father's blade.”
“Not denying... wanna swing it my way...”
“Won't follow orders? That's denial. What sophistry'd you hear?”
“F-Father, do you want me exactly your swordsman?”
Barkas halted, glaring blankly a beat.
“You'll inherit my sword, surpass it. I don't want you the same—you must be stronger.”
“I... have no confidence.”
Bruno shook his head.
“No confidence learning your sword and surpassing you...”
“...”
“S-So... wanna grip it different. Not abandoning teachings. Someday, if I truly understand your sword, then...”
“Already different—how'll you understand mine?”
Barkas sneered. Bruno had no retort. Barkas's eyes narrowed at his son.
Heavy silence. Barkas eyed his trembling-but-unbowed son.
Should be disappointed. Swayed by sudden nonsense, spinelessly demanding change. Denying 15 years' teachings.
But.
His eyes changed.
That fierce glare yelling back. Knees unbent. Still staring straight.
Barkas didn't think his sword or teachings wrong. Or unfit for Bruno. Sons resemble fathers. Uncomfortable now, but persist—it'd shape as he wished.
But is that Bruno's sword? Barkas pondered.
“Here's the deal.”
Barkas spoke.
“Do as you want. Change sword on that brat's whim—I don't care.”
“...!”
“Don't misunderstand. Not admitting I'm wrong. To break your stubbornness, make you feel your way's flawed to the bone. I'll test your sword yearly myself.”
Barkas's lips twisted.
“No results matching your big talk? Father-son ties cut. No longer Alastor—go to your mother.”
Bruno's mouth gaped blankly.
“Scared? Apologize for your nonsense, swing as before. What's it gonna be?”
“I... I...”
After long hesitation, Bruno squeezed his eyes shut. Disappointment flashed on Barkas's face, but Bruno opened them, straightened.
“U-Understood. Yearly... show you my sword. If unsatisfied, then... to Mother, as you say...”
“Hah.”
Short sigh from Barkas.
“For real?”
“Yes...”
“Hah...”
Barkas sighed again, shaking his head.
“Out.”
Never expected that answer.
Alone, Barkas slumped to the floor, lost in thought.
Kyle Alastor...
Just ten. Freshly awakened spirit root. That kid toyed with Bruno at will.
Should feel filthy, but chills ran his spine. He'd half-admitted it: Bruno didn't take after him. Couldn't be his sword. To force it, melt Bruno like iron, reforge.
Normally, he'd avert eyes, beg forgiveness...
Son rebelling, raising voice, defying—first time.
“Strange feeling.”
Barkas chuckled dryly, shaking his head.
Infuriating, vexing, outrageous.
Yet, faintly proud.